


What's the Point?

by Snarkyowl



Category: Markiplier Egos, Who Killed Markiplier
Genre: alcohol mention, breakdown - Freeform, depression kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 06:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snarkyowl/pseuds/Snarkyowl
Summary: Just because they're all alive here in the ego building doesn't mean things are suddenly alright. Damien breaks in his office, and no one is there to catch him when he falls.





	What's the Point?

**Author's Note:**

> This was a spur of the moment type thing, so if it's not the best sorry in advance ^^;

Damien faces his emotions alone because sometimes being alone is easier than facing someone and telling them how you feel, even if it’s not the healthy thing to do.

As the door shuts behind him, Damien lets himself fall apart. Good posture turns slumped, a once content face turns tired and bitter, bright eyes dull. The air in the room hangs heavy on his shoulders, his cane hits the floor with a too loud clatter in the hush that has befallen his surroundings.

Damien clears his throat, swallows around the lump trying to form there. He shakes his head forcefully, makes himself stoop down and retrieve the dropped cane. Stiffly, he rises back up and makes his way to his desk.

Slowly, he sinks into his chair. He settles in it heavily, turning boneless as he slumps back in his seat. Empty eyes find themselves locked on the picture he keeps on his desk, always facing towards him.

The picture brings back memories he wants to go back to, memories he wants to forget, and a reminder of where he is now. It all burns into his heart like a brand, leaving a scar on something already long since shattered.

His cheeks are wet when the knock on his door alerts him to a visitor. He draws in a quivering breath, dabs at his eyes and cheeks with a sleeve. Clearing his throat once more, sitting up, and adjusting his papers to give the appearance he’s been working, he speaks.

“Come in.”

The door swings open, and in steps the Colonel. Damn.

“Damien! You ran off before the fun began! That’s not like you.” Colonel says in an almost scolding tone, and Damien forces himself to chuckle.

“Apologies to abandon you, my friend. I have work to attend to-”  
“What’s the point?” Colonel asks, and Damien freezes.

The Colonel, he now notices, is intoxicated. How he managed to do that in the short time he was without Damien is beyond the mayor, but he doesn’t ask.

“Pardon?” He asks dumbly, watching as Colonel shambles his way over to sit on the desk.

“What’s the point of doing… this?” Here the Colonel gestures sloppily to the papers on Damien’s desk.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not a mayor, you’re nothing.” It stings more than the Colonel means for it to, and Damien knows Colonel is speaking poorly because he’s drunk but it still hurts.

“Colonel-”  
“We don’t exist anymore, Damien. Your life has long since been overtaken and then forgotten.”  
“Colonel please-”  
“You still do all this work though, you fool. You still work! Your mayorship as long since expired, Damien. Live a little! This is worthless!” Colonel crows, lifting the papers and tossing them up with a gleeful laugh.

Damien’s patience for his friend’s drunk babbling ends there.

“William!” He barks, watching as his friend straightens up almost immediately in response to the harsh tone.

“Get out.” Damien says next, quieter.

Quiet isn’t calm, though. The underlying emotion to the statement makes the drunk Colonel pause and look to him, something akin to worry in the eyes Damien hasn’t seen for ages without those damned glasses in the way.

“Damien, I didn’t mean to-”  
“Get. Out.” Damien says again, and Colonel knows there’s no room to argue.

The man leaves slowly (if he’s trying to make Damien feel bad and ask him back, it isn’t working), and Damien rests his head in his hands with a tired sigh.

He pulls his head up and slumps back once more, staring at the mess of papers with a twisting in his heart and a numbness to the rest of his body.

“What’s the point?” He whispers to himself, stare going from hollow to completely blank.

“What’s the point of living?” He asks no one, following it with an empty laugh.

He’s not amused, but then again maybe he is. Seems morbid to be laughing over such a thing, but after everything he feels he’s entitled to be a little morbid.

“If god has forsaken me, then I shall forsake him too.” He murmurs, standing on tired legs.

He hears them all down stairs, laughing and having fun. Living. Living, and here he is, remembering that he should be dead. He shouldn’t be here. His very existence doesn’t make any sense.

The alcohol he stores away in his room soon finds its way into his hands, and soon the bottle is empty. So, he goes for another. 

He goes beyond the human limit because he’s not human anymore. If he does die, the chance the fans will bring him back is high with his current popularity.

What’s the point?

The Colonel’s question rings through his head as a reminder, and he laughs bitterly.

“What’s the point of loving you if all you’re going to do is chase other, prettier, faces?” Damien rasps, looking once again at the picture on his desk.

“What’s the point of living if I’m only an echo of the past?”  
“What’s the point of existing if I know I’m not supposed to?” Damien feels he’s on the brink of hysteria now as he sets down another empty bottle.

This isn’t healthy. He feels sick, but he forces himself to keep some kind of calm through this breakdown. Some kind of calm in the storm.

He wants to be held, he craves some kind of loving touch. All he gets in response to his wishes in a cold breeze as the air conditioner clicks on once more.

What’s the point of feeling, if all you ever do is hurt?

Damien stumbles to his feet, leaning heavily on the desk as the world around him spins. He takes a step away and immediately he feels himself tilting to the side. Damien tries in vain to catch himself, but soon he’s on the floor.

Too disorientated now to worry about getting up, he resigns himself to staying here, on the floor, for the rest of the night.

At some point he feebly asks for help. Apologizes for being a fool. Asks for warmth, for salvation from all of this. He asks for someone to care. He asks for someone. Anyone.

But nobody came.


End file.
